His Moonlit Champion
by Midnight Seraph
Summary: She was like the moon personified... [KarlaBartre]


**Description: **The beginnings and tragic resolution of the ill-fated romance of Karla and Bartre, one of _Fire Emblem_'s (at least in my opinion) least appreciated couples. Bartre is pretty OOC, but hey, it's possible he got more perceptive and intellectual. shrug

**Rating: **Rated T for violence, some mild adult content, and implied sexuality.

**Couples: **The chief coupling of this fic is Bartre/Karla, in case you already guessed. However, there is a very, very brief reference to Lyn/Rath as well.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Fire Emblem_ or anything related to it. Really, I don't.

* * *

The heat was unbearable, stifling, choking the breath from everyone and everything it touched. The accompanying wind did nothing to reduce the heat's oppressive influence; rather, it increased it, sending great clouds of dust and dirt into the air, to coat lungs and throats in a sour film. The sun blazed overhead, unrelenting, bright enough to discourage anyone from glancing too far skywards. On the streets and in buildings, the heat was omnipresent, and permeated the air, making absolutely everything seem hot and sticky.

Of course, the hot wind did nothing to help the already sweltering conditions of the arena; it only worsened them, and to a much greater degree. The excited onlookers only added to the heat, causing everyone and everything in the arena to become drenched with sweat. Raucous shouts and yells sounded out, along with the stomping of feet and the clapping of hands, to create a wild, savage chorus that was not uncommonly heard in the arena's fight-to-the-death atmosphere. If anything, the oppressive heat only made the audience even more riled up.

The competitors were a different story.

On one end stood a tall and extremely muscular man, clad in thick black leggings and a plain blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves. A green sash of sorts billowed about his waist, secured by a brown leather belt. He wore a leather bracer on his left arm, and a thin strip of gauze had been wrapped around his right wrist. His short brown hair was framed by a white headband, and a confident smile shone on his sculpted face. Both of his arms were bulging with muscles, a testament of the weapon he clutched in his right hand – a great steel axe, which glinted in the hot sunlight.

At the opposite end of the arena, standing in both shadows and the torrid sunlight, was a woman. Not only was she a woman, but she was a very beautiful woman, one quite visibly unlike her opponent in every way. She was of fair, slightly tan complexion, and wore a solemn smile on her heart-shaped face. Her dark eyes displayed no signs of anxiety or lack of self-confidence. She wore a billowy white robe, trimmed with purple silk, whose sleeves extended to her wrists. Wrapped around her waist was a blue sash, held in place by a thin brown belt of sorts, which was in turn held together by a golden clasp. She had long, dark hair, which blew in the breeze, giving her an almost ethereal appearance. Her left hand clutched a slim sword, obviously oriental in origin.

There was a sudden clash as the gong was struck; the sound washed over the arena, temporarily causing a standstill. It was almost as if the sun itself had ceased its oppression, and everything in the arena seemed to pause for a moment, and everything was silent and still. This temporary peace was suddenly shattered, however, as the two challengers began to charge each other, and the excited onlookers resumed their wild concert of shouts, whistles, and cheers.

The man appeared visibly startled as he realized just who he was facing. Not only was it a woman, but a woman of much more lithesome and slender build than his own. She was also quite beautiful… He shook these thoughts away as he lifted his axe to strike, but he had tarried for too long. The woman, as silent and swift as the wind, was already making a lunge for him, her sword outstretched.

The man let out a cry, and without thinking sidestepped the blow. The woman whirled around to face him again, and with the grace of an acrobat, leapt backwards. Before he knew what was happening, the woman was charging for him again, a determined fire in her eyes that quelled all thoughts of hesitation in his mind. She was a challenger, and a very talented one. He would not let himself be distracted by the fact that she was a woman, and a very beautiful one at that…

The man lifted his axe just as she struck, and the piercing song of metal upon metal rung out over the arena. The cheers intensified as the two remained locked in a standstill, neither of the two combatants relenting. The man gnashed his teeth as he attempted to break the lock; the woman, however, remained looking somber and almost expressionless. He faintly heard the sound of her sword sliding against the blade of his axe. Before he could react, he saw the woman break their stalemate, and the glittering tip of her sword dive into the flesh of his upper torso.

The man let out a cry, swinging his axe at the woman. In a flash, the woman removed her sword and blocked the strike, effortlessly, and resumed her battle position. The very look of her, standing their so still and serene, completely unaffected by the damage she had done, infuriated the man beyond reason. With a shout he dove for her, axe raised above his head. The woman laughed in the most infuriatingly lovely way – the man snarled in rage – and lunged at him again. Her blade now struck his upper leg, and cut open the fabric of his pants, staining them with blood.

The man was breathing quite heavily now, having fallen victim to two wounds that were quite draining on his stamina. He stumbled back after the blow to his leg and lifted his axe again, but it was slower and less steady this time, almost as if he were doing it in slow motion. The rage that was so visibly etched in the lines of his face was slowly fading away, replaced by a sudden weariness, but he would not let himself go without a fight. He loosed an animalistic war cry and swung at her again.

He watched only as the steel blade of his axe swung through her billowing hair. Her silken tresses slid around it like water on rock, and before he knew it, she was laughing that detestably beautiful laugh again, and he was on the ground. Pain saturated every fiber of his body, and he realized there was another wound, this one on his shoulder. The woman stood over him, victorious, her blade streaked with his blood.

_His _blood.

She had won.

He grunted, unable to accept this simple truth, but it came out as more of a gurgling groan. He realized that there was some hot, bitter liquid in his mouth, and he turned his head to spit upon the ground. Blood oozed out into a puddle on the ground. The woman was still standing there, victorious, triumphant, like an angel of swords… A beautiful angel…

Yes…

His vision blurred, and the sounds of the cheering, raucous crowd died down… Suddenly, there was total silence, and everything went black.

She had beaten him.

* * *

"Lord Hector?"

The brawny heir of Ostia turned to look at Bartre, a smile present on his face. It gave Bartre comfort to see that; rarely did Hector smile anymore, ever since his brother, the marquess, had passed away.

"Yes, what is it, Bartre?"

"Lord Hector… Have you, by chance, seen Karla?"

Bartre asked this hesitantly, reluctant to speak the words, for a reason he could not place a finger on. He hoped it did not seem too out of the ordinary… He shuffled awkwardly, his axe swinging ever so softly at his side as he did so, and grabbed at the back of his neck with his right hand. Gazing down at his feet, he wondered just what he was getting himself into…

Ever since they had spoken last, Bartre had not been able to keep his mind off the beautiful swordmaster for long. Everything he looked at in some way reminded him of her – the rustling trees were like her beautiful tresses, blowing in the wind; the ripples of the water were like the surfaces of her dark, unfathomable eyes. Everytime he so much as glanced at a sword he was reminded of her graceful swings, her swiftness and deadliness with that trusted blade of hers. Gazing up at the moonlight reminded him of what it looked like to see light reflected in her eyes…

"Karla? No, I haven't seen her. Perhaps Karel would know?"

Bartre felt his stomach tie itself into a knot at the mentioning of his name. "I see. Thank you, Lord Hector."

Hector smiled briefly again and turned away. Bartre hardly noticed this, and felt sick to his stomach. The thought of merely going near that bloodthirsty monster sent chills racing up his spine. Karel… He was so very different from his sister. So very different, in so many ways… and again, he was so very similar to her. They both were masters of the sword, and both of them were as lithesome as acrobats. They both were swift, relentless, and unforgiving combatants, Karel probably more so.

However… Karla's somber face hid a shining character, like a beautiful mask that only hid greater beauty behind it. Karel wore the face of one who has seen much bloodshed, and had delighted in it all. Bartre saw fire and death whenever he looked into Karel's eyes. As such, he steered clear of the dark-haired swordsman as much as humanly possible.

It was imperative that he speak to Karla, though. He had to. He didn't know why, but there was an urgency within him, and his instinct screamed her name. He… He had to tell her. He had to tell her how he felt.

Karel, no matter how diabolical he was, would not stand in his way. He wouldn't let him.

The tent where Lord Hector resided was something of a makeshift mess hall; it was where most of Hector's forces had gathered for recreation and meals, now that the battle was over. It was past evening and dinner had just ended, but still many of Hector's forces remained, their faces lit by the soft glow of lanterns Merlinus had set up. The darkness of night and the cold weather outside had discouraged most of them from leaving the mess hall until it was entirely necessary. Bartre knew that many could be found here… but he knew that Karel was not, and never would be one of them.

Bartre stepped past a squealing Serra, who was attempting to get Erk to read her a story, and opened the tent flap to stand in the still, cold air outside. Around him, snow was falling gently on the small array of tents, frosting them like a giant cake. Tall pine trees were interspersed throughout the campsite, and these trees held great clumps of snow. The snow fell softly and silently in a way that was more than picturesque, but Bartre did not take the time to watch the snowfall or even soak in the beauty of the surrounding area.

He had to find Karel.

He passed by Jaffar's tent and was surprised to hear soft sobs, but he paid it no mind. He quickly shuffled past an unsettlingly tilting pine tree towards Priscilla's tent, where he could see the candlelit silhouette of the delicate Etrurian flipping pages of a book, humming softly to herself. Undoubtedly she was studying anima magic for her next battle. He continued moving past the tents of nearly everyone in the entire army – past Guy's tent, where the Sacaen swordsman was conversing with Matthew; past Lyn's tent, where Bartre could hear muffled noises, and saw that Rath's horse was standing idly outside; past Pent and Louise's tent, where he could hear Louise's gentle laughter – until he found Karel's small, dark tent, whose flaps were blowing in the chilling breeze. There was a rather large tree nearby, whose barren limbs were bulky enough to cast a large shadow over the tent.

"Looking for someone?"

Bartre stood alert as a figure moved from out of the shadows of the barren oak. He knew who it was by the very voice; there was no doubt in his mind it was the ruthless man he had been searching for. He saw the azure robes, the demonic smile, the glint of his onyx eyes, and it was the verified truth.

It was Karel.

"Y-Yes, Karel… Have you by chance seen—"

"My sister?" Karel spoke this coldly, without a single trace of any warmth in his voice or words. As if in response, a bit of wind picked up, chilling Bartre to the bone.

"Yes. I need to speak with her. It's urgent." Bartre had regained a bit of confidence, but he doubted it would last underneath Karel's penetrating gaze.

Karel responded with only silence, and continued moving towards Bartre, his dark, chiseled juxtaposed by the soft white flakes that fell all around him. His movements were fluid and smooth, as if he were some sort of serpent and not an actual human. Before Bartre had any idea what was happening Karel was standing less than a foot away from him, leering at him with blazing eyes.

"I don't seem to understand."

Again, Karel's words were as cold as the ice on the tips of the trees.

"Well, I, uh, need to speak to her, because, uh, we said—"

"Do you love her?"

Bartre felt all shreds of confidence flee him at that moment, and the knot in his stomach, which had gone away for a moment, return with full force. He shuffled uneasily, completely speechless, unknowing of what to do beneath Karel's unforgiving stare. Karel smiled at him in a mocking, merciless way, displaying white teeth Bartre, for a second, believed were actually fangs.

"I—"

"It's a yes or no question."

"Well, y'see—"

"Just answer it, worm!"

"I don't need to take this from you!" Bartre suddenly shouted, snapping underneath the pressure. His lip curled as he glared at Karel before him. Karel merely smiled, his brow raised, his eyes glittering even more dangerously than before. Bartre nervously realized that Karel's right hand was now wrapped around the hilt of his sheathed sword, and the smile upon his face was even more frightening.

"…You're weak."

Karel spoke these words without malice or bitterness, but as if he were merely stating a fact that he'd learned in childhood.

"Karel, I don't want a fight—"

"Precisely."

Karel tore his sword from its sheath, and the dark steel sung amidst the snowfall and moonlight. He gazed at Bartre with a crazed hunger in his eyes, and his smile became a predatory one.

"Like I've told the others before you… Blood will fall. _Your_ blood."

Bartre took a deep, ragged breath, drawing his axe. His eyes fell upon Karel's sword, and he was instantly reminded of seeing his own blood sliding down Karla's sword, that fateful match in the arena, what seemed like so long ago…

"If it is a fight you want, Karel…"

"Oh, I want more than a fight, Bartre. I want to watch you fall, and I want to watch you die."

Bartre thought of Karla, and felt a sudden and unexpected surge of confidence.

"I won't fall, not like the others before me. You will not defeat me."

"You really should hear yourself talk; you sound like a fool. And like all foolish weaklings, you will be claimed by my blade. Shall we begin?"

Before Bartre could utter a response, Karel had dove for him, sword outstretched. Bartre swung his axe, interrupting Karel's attack; Karel dove under Bartre's weapon and stood up by his side, sword gracing the surface of the snow upon the ground. Bartre rapidly stepped backwards, dodging a savage swing by Karel, whose eyes were glowing.

"Hold out while you can!"

Karel lunged at Bartre, slicing through the fabric of his shirt, and the tip of his blade grazed Bartre's abdomen. Bartre gnashed his teeth and swung his axe at Karel again, but Karel nimbly dodged it, yet again. Karel pointed his sword towards the ground and then lifted it to stab Bartre in the neck, but Bartre ducked and dodged it.

"Fool! You will perish soon enough!"

All was silent as the two fought, but not once did their blades meet. The snow fell noiselessly all around them, creating an aura of false peace. Save Bartre's heavy breathing and Karel's occasional laughs, everything was still silent, as if the two were not there and fighting to the death.

Bartre whirled out of the way of another of Karel's wild swings, but the blade caught his left shoulder, slicing through the fabric. Blood quickly soaked through, creating a spot quite vulnerable to the cold air around them. Bartre groaned; the wound stung as the freezing air touched it, and amplified the pain tenfold.

Karel smiled.

"You amuse me, Bartre. I did not expect you to last this long. But alas… We all must die, some day…"

Karel lunged at him. Bartre sidestepped it, and without thinking, swung the broad side of his axe towards Karel's head as it passed by his shoulder. His axe collided with Karel's skull. The swordsman let out a gasp and tumbled into the snow, his dark locks resting, splayed, on the snow around him.

Bartre stared at Karel's unmoving body, and discerned a very faint movement in his chest, which told him all he needed to know. He thought for a moment of what to do next, and after hooking his axe back to his belt, he called out, "Priscilla!"

He waited for several moments in the snow, though he instinctively averted Karel's body. The seconds seemed to crawl by like an eternity before his eyes fell upon the delicate, red-haired healer. She stared at him with green eyes.

"Thank you. Karel tried to attack me; I incapacitated him. Would you make sure he's okay?"

"Of course," Priscilla said, reaching for her staff. Bartre noticed that she did not seem as nervous and soft-spoken as she normally did when he spoke to her. He guessed it was because there was someone in need of her talents; then again, it didn't really matter. Priscilla motioned towards Karel's tent. "Could you please move him to his tent?"

Bartre gulped, and crouched over Karel, grabbing the motionless swordsman by his shoulders. He gazed at Karel's lolling head, his closed eyes, and knew that he was in no condition to fight him, not now. Having his doubts assuaged, he slung Karel effortlessly over his shoulder, and moved towards Karel's tent. Priscilla followed close behind, and light a lantern as they entered.

"Just lay him on the bed, please." Bartre did as Priscilla requested. Priscilla bent over Karel, and began to inspect his motionless body for wounds.

"Priscilla, can you take it from here?"

Priscilla turned and looked at him, her eyes suddenly wide and fearful.

"Why? Do you need to go somewhere?" she asked nervously.

"Well, yes, but—"

Priscilla looked somewhat sad. "I… I just don't feel comfortable with… with him…" She glanced at Karel's prone form timidly, as if the unconscious swordmaster would suddenly attack her without warning.

"Don't worry. If he tries anything funny, he'll hear from me." His confidence restored, Bartre gave Priscilla a reassuring grin. Priscilla took a deep breath.

"All right… I'll take it from here, then."

"Thank you, Priscilla."

Bartre nodded, and left the tent, returning to the moonlit, snowy landscape of the campsite.

It was then that he realized that Karel had not told him where Karla was.

Suddenly angry, Bartre kicked the snow at his feet, hitting the trunk of the great, leafless oak. He had risked his life for an answer he never received! Without knowing what to do, Bartre glanced at a pathway through the nearby trees, and took it.

The path was foreboding and, if at all possible, even colder than the campsite. Even so, Bartre pressed on, in an attempt to collect his thoughts. Where would Karla be at this hour? He normally would have guessed that she would be in her tent, as any normal woman would be at this time of night… but he knew from experience that she wouldn't be there.

Bartre thought of everything he had said and spoken to Karla. She… was so unlike any woman he had ever met before. He had never known a swordmaster so skilled and swift as Karla. He had, at first, underestimated her, taking her for little more than a pretty face that could swing a sword. But after he had fought her in that match… His opinion changed drastically. She had actually been able to beat him, and was able to make a fool out of him by doing so. He then saw her as the ultimate rival, the perfect challenger.

He had tried again and again to beat her, and yet everytime he did not win. She won. She _always_ won. Bartre never had been the type of guy who could stomach repeated defeats… but it was different with Karla. Whereas anyone else would rub it in his face, she only greeted his failings with one of her gentle smiles and a reassuring "Don't worry, you'll get better." He could never quite understand why she was so… nice to him.

And then… He found that he was not always going back to face her because he wanted to get better. Well, sort of. He did want to get better – he was truthfully determined to beat her one day – but he wanted something else more. He wanted… to see her. To talk to her. To be with her. Being near her made him forget about failing and losing; being with her made him calm. She was wonderful to talk to. She would listen to him about all sorts of things, and they would talk for hours… They'd become friends, as well as rivals. And still, Bartre wanted something… Something more…

Bartre had awoken one morning and realized that the first thing he wanted to do was not to practice his axe-work, like he always did, or eat breakfast, like he sometimes did – but to see Karla. His mind wandered to thinking of her elegance, her grace, her beauty, her wonderful smile, her gentle laugh, the way she looked in the moonlight, how her eyes shone in the sunlight… After that moment, Bartre had found it difficult to talk to Karla without stammering, without feeling insecure.

Bartre had never felt insecure about anything, before he met Karla. How could it be that this beautiful woman could make him shake at his very roots! He was perplexed, unable to reason why.

And then it struck him.

He _loved_ her.

He had come to that realization the previous night. The day's battle had prevented him from speaking with Karla, but he was determined to do so now.

The thick wall of trees on one side of the path vanished, and Bartre's eyes fell upon a moonlit, snow-laden clearing, even more silent than the snowy campsite.

There was Karla.

The swordswoman was standing beneath the moonlight, and a gentle breeze was blowing through, causing her silken tresses to flow like water. She clutched her sword in one hand; the sword shimmered under the moonlight. Her white robe seemed to glow like the moon itself. Bartre had a fleeting thought that Karla was the moon personified; they both were shining, luminous, beautiful…

Karla did not notice him, or at least was ignoring him. That was understandable; she was training now. Bartre watched from a distance as the graceful swordswoman leapt and lunged through the silent air, her sword glinting, her hair flowing. The way she moved… Bartre found himself smiling, and warmth surged throughout his body. No one had ever made him feel this way before…

Karla suddenly stopped, and sheathed her blade.

"…Bartre?" she called out tentatively, staring right at him.

Bartre emerged from the shadows of the trees, and stood beside her in the clearing, smiling. He gazed at her perfect face, her dark eyes, her pink lips, her soft cheeks… He felt a sudden longing; she was so very beautiful…

"Karla," he said softly. Karla looked at him, grinning slightly.

"Yes, Bartre? What is it—"

Before Karla knew what was happening, Bartre's lips had found hers. Karla found herself in Bartre's strong embrace, against his chest, his arms around her, supporting her. They stood there, beneath the moonlight and snowfall, in their own little heaven.

When their lips finally broke away, Bartre found himself trembling. Trembling because of this woman… Karla, his love.

She had won, again.

Unable to face the truth, Bartre kissed her again.

Later that night, as Bartre lay with Karla in his arms, he smiled.

And the night rode on.

* * *

"Bartre…"

The fits came more quickly, more rapidly, and more intensely than ever before, rocking Karla's slender frame with agony. Bartre was not used to seeing his Karla in such terrible pain, and he was suffering each time he stood by her side as the fit passed, holding onto her hand as best he could. Karla was soaked with perspiration, her dark eyes having lost their shine, her lips having lost their smile, her skin having lost its lustrous gleam. Karla was sick.

She… was dying.

Bartre had seen her symptoms get progressively worse, and each day successively made him more and more worried. How long would his beloved stand in the presence of this terrible malady? It hurt him so deeply to see her in such pain; if he could, he would have stolen her suffering from her, that she might be as happy and beautiful as she always was, with her laughter, her smile…

"Bartre…"

Bartre gazed sadly into Karla's eyes. The swordswoman shook and spent the next several moments coughing, which in turn made her breathing ragged and her words little more than wheezy whispers.

"Yes, Karla?"

"Don't… be sad… Please, don't… be sad…"

Bartre nodded slowly.

"Fir… She… Tell her I love her…"

Bartre turned and gazed at the doorway, where he expected the wide-eyed young girl, who so resembled her mother, to be. But Fir was absent from her post. At Karla's insistence, he had kept her away from her ailing mother. Karla did not want Fir to see her like this. She did not want her to get sick, either. Bartre had resisted Karla's attempts to make him do the same; he would not abandon her.

"Of course, Karla."

"Bartre… Do you remember… when… you first… kissed me…?"

Bartre gave a sad smile.

"Y-Yes, Karla…"

"I… never told you… but… I loved you… before then…"

Bartre took her hand in his. Her skin was cold as ice.

"Karla…" He leant over and kissed her on her sweat-streaked forehead. Karla gasped as she was hit with another racking cough, this one lasting several more minutes. Never did Bartre let go of her hand.

"Bartre… I… I wish it didn't… have to be… this way…"

Bartre, horrified, watched as Karla's eyes began to flood with tears. Never before had he seen his wife cry… it made him feel insecure all over again.

"Karla, don't cry, please don't cry…"

"I wish… we had more time…"

Bartre kissed her hand, and pressed it closer to his heart.

"Don't worry… Karla, I love you. I always will…"

"You know… I always… thought…" Karla began, but stopped as she was hit with another coughing fit. She then resumed. "When I… saw you first, in the arena… I didn't… think you were… a weakling…"

Bartre was suddenly reminded of that moonlit duel with Karel.

"I… I knew…"

Karla took a deep breath.

"I knew that… You were…"

She coughed several more times, and took several heaving breaths.

"…a good… man… I—"

Bartre watched her eyes pale; she blinked weakly, slowly, as if she were losing strength to perform even the least draining of tasks…

"I…"

She coughed again, this one more violent than ever before; her whole body shook.

"…love…"

Karla stared upwards.

"…you…"

Her body began to shake, uncontrollably, wildly, violently. Through all of it, Bartre held his wife's hand in his.

"Fir… and you… brought… happiness… to me…"

She gave a great heave, and more coughs ensued. Bartre didn't let go.

"I love you… Karla…"

Karla's lips twitched to make a very weak smile, unlike anything that had graced her face before… but all Bartre saw was the triumphant smile he had first seen, all those days in the arena… her beautiful, beautiful smile.

Bartre felt Karla's hand go limp, and she breathed no longer.

And the truth dawned on him.

Karla, his wife, his beloved, was dead.

He pressed her cold hand to his heart one final time, and bent over and kissed her forehead, ever so slightly. He heard the floorboards creak, and turned to see Fir, standing in the doorway, her face twisted with horror.

"She's… Mother, she's—!"

Bartre grabbed his daughter in a tight hug, letting her sob into his shoulder, trying his best not to cry. He felt tears begin to well in his eyes, and he furiously blinked them away. Despite this, they came back, and before he knew it, he too was crying right alongside Fir. Father and daughter sobbed for what seemed like an eternity.

She was gone.

That night, he found a grassy knoll, just before a cliff that stood towering over the ocean. Amidst the salty ocean air and the relaxing breeze, he dug the grave, toiling silently until his work was completed. When he was done, he held Karla in his arms one final time beneath the moonlight, before laying her gently down into the earth. Fir watched silently.

When he was done, he stared off at the moon, remembering that one fleeting vision that Karla was the moon personified. After all, she was glorious, luminous, beautiful…

Bartre smiled at this thought, and came to another realization.

He had never beat Karla. Never, in all their sparring, in all their duels… Karla always won.

She had always won.

Bartre closed his eyes and pictured her in his mind, beneath the moonlight, smiling that victorious smile.

"Father…"

Bartre embraced his daughter tightly, and taking her in his arms, led her down the path to their little home in Sacae.


End file.
